The few notes which I propose to add, including as they do a personal reminiscence of the man, may possibly be of interest. A writer of fiction constantly arranges his problem to suit his solution of it; it is perhaps beneficial, though somewhat humiliating, that he should occasionally turn his attention to the problems that real life sets him, and see how much more difficult it is to find the solution then.
Cyrus Verd came to England in his thirty-fourth year, an age at which many men are only at the commencement of their career. He had already made his fortune. I cannot say exactly how rich he was. Many newspaper paragraphs at the time gave estimates of his annual income—all different. I should say that the only man who really knew was Cyrus Verd himself. He owned steamships, railways, factories, mines, and enough land for a small nation. On his arrival in London many stories were told of his extravagance and eccentricity.
He was debating where he should reside, and a friend suggested that he should take or build a house in Park Lane.
"Where is Park Lane?" asked Cyrus Verd. He had been only two days in London.
"Runs along the east side of Hyde Park, in the most fashionable quarter. Your coachman would know it."
Verd went to look at it, and returned.
"Yes," he said, "it would be a fair site for a house—one house. But there seems to be some brick tenements there of some sort or other already. I suppose I could get those cleared away?"
He made the attempt, and was very angry at first when he found that he could not "get those cleared away." But he soon grew more philosophical.
"Your people," he observed, "cling to their little homes, I guess."